


nevertheless

by cowsatdawn (pigeonsatdawn)



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Is this hurt/comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Self-Indulgent, anyways read author's note if you still need an explanation for this abomination, from your number one march simp, i don't know what this fic's genre is tbh, is this bittersweet, is this crack, lauren and kieran are here but i don't care about them, let's just call this a march appreciation fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28645497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonsatdawn/pseuds/cowsatdawn
Summary: “You love me nevertheless.”“That I do,” he said with a sigh. “That, indeed, I do.”look whatever summary i give you won't justify this fic you might as well read it
Relationships: You/Oliver March
Comments: 19
Kudos: 22





	nevertheless

**Author's Note:**

> look in these 9 days of 2021 i have Terrible writer's block (at least in Good Writing) and even Reader's block—i read one word and i shut the entire window
> 
> so as you will probably be able to tell, this isn't proofread At All. enjoy.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

The little girl pursed her lips, puffing out her cheeks in an adorable way. Instead of giving him an answer, she skipped towards the stairs, running with her little feet, disappearing into the second story of the humble apartment. Her father blinked twice, before chuckling to himself.

“She really has a penchant for running around, doesn’t she?”

You joined him in his laughter, the chuckles harmonizing in the tiny kitchen. As you prepared a warm cup of coffee for your husband, you noted teasingly, “Indeed. Very much like a certain officer I know.”

“It’s not like she watches me run around chasing criminals,” he pouted cutely as he whined. 

You resisted the urge to pinch his cheeks, their resemblance to those of your daughter’s all too uncanny. “I’m not saying it like it’s a bad thing. Besides, perhaps it just _runs_ in the blood, no?”

He blinked at you, once, twice. “You’re _really_ not funny.”

“You love me nevertheless.”

“That I do,” he sighed, and you couldn’t help the fond smile growing upon your face. It had been nearly a decade since you’ve been married to Oliver March, and your daughter was about to turn eight in a month. Whenever you thought about the past, all the time you’ve spent with your husband, watching your daughter grow, you couldn’t help but feel wistful longing. Perhaps it was because you were a pessimist, but the dangerous nature of Oliver’s job reminded you daily of how lucky you two were, to still be able to have a child and make it this far, knowing anything could happen to him anytime. More often than not, you wished that time would stay still in that very present, so that nothing would change and there wouldn’t be the risk of a future without your husband. You couldn’t imagine life without him, but moreover, you couldn’t imagine _her_ living a life without him.

The sound of tiny footsteps woke you up mid-reverie, and your head snapped towards the stairs, watching as little Olivia March made her way towards her father, sitting on the small dining table with a newspaper spread across it. She lifted the object she retrieved upstairs with her little hands—

“Honey, what are you doing with my handcuffs?” Oliver pried them from her grasp, and out of instinct, he put his hand on his back pocket—except he didn’t have one, because he was in his pajamas. “These are dangerous, and not for kids like you.”

“Well, I want to be an officer like you when I grow up!” the kid replied enthusiastically. “Besides, if you didn’t want me to have it, maybe you shouldn’t put it where I can see it.”

“You have immense sass and you speak way too eloquently for an eight-year-old,” he chided. “You’ve been hanging around them way too often lately, and I don’t like it.”

“I’m not eight yet,” she mumbled sulkily. “This is why I like them more. And what’s _e–lo–quent–ly_?”

“Same difference,” he shrugged, but smirked at the sight of his frustrated daughter. “Ask them to find out, since you like them more.”

You headed to the dining table with two cups of coffee, one for him—sans milk and sugar—the other for yourself, with milk and sugar. “Tch. You’re just jealous that she prefers playing with me over with you,” you joked. “I’m the fun parent, isn’t that right, sweetie?”

“Totally,” Olivia agreed, giving you a fist bump. You see Oliver cooing at the difference of your fists, and you grin at the adorable sight. 

“She just plays with you more because I’m busy with work,” he retorted. “You’ll see on my day off; she’d definitely choose to play with _me_ instead of you.”

“You’re acting like I don’t work everyday as well.”

He gave you a deadpan stare. “She stays with you while you work after she finishes school! I’d totally bring her to work if my work isn’t dangerous. You have an unfair advantage.”

Olivia cleared her throat. “Now, now, kids,” she bellowed, morphing her voice to be as deep as possible. You held in a guffaw; she’d learned that from none other than yourself, having said it so much as you witnessed your husband and daughter bicker endlessly around the house. “”Let’s not fight. I love you both equally, alright?”

“You sound like them, and I don’t know how to feel about that,” Oliver muttered. “You’re the kid here, you gremlin.”

“Hey! I am not—” Oliver had gotten out of his seat and begun running, heading straight for the door leading outside the apartment. Your daughter, the little rascal, naturally followed suit, and you did too, making sure they don’t go too far from the house, lest anything happening to either one of them. You watched from the porch as your daughter, the cop wannabe, captured the real cop with her grabby hands, and your husband carrying your daughter back to the house, she already tired out from the chase.

When they arrived on the porch, Olivia was half asleep on her father’s shoulders. He gave you a small smile, but it was enough to warm your heart. You returned it tenderly. 

There was no guarantee of a stable future, not for a family housing a detective, frontline against the terrors of Ardhalis.

Every moment was to be cherished, no matter how big or small it seemed.

* * *

She never made it to her eighth year.

A week before her birthday, you had brought your daughter out to Nightingale Park, having promised her time to play together in the park one of these days. You and your husband had always been so busy, and she was getting lonelier by the day; even with her friends, she’d always felt a closer emotional bond to you and Oliver. Perhaps it was because you were so loving as parents that she felt this way, and you were only this way because you were scared to lose this—this family, this _happiness_ of yours.

Yet, you never thought you’d lose _her_ , especially not this early. How foolish of you.

The two of you were walking across the park, little Olivia talking about the funny things that happened in school, you entertaining her every once in a while with your own set of stories. Olivia, being the hyper kid she was, moved restlessly even while they were simply walking, and at one point her feet just couldn’t stand it, and she began running around. 

You stared at her incredulously. “Why are you so excited today? I would’ve thought that after school, you’d have been too tired to even _talk_ , yet here you are, running like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Well dad always says that there’s no tomorrow, so live like today’s your last,” she muttered to herself, before craning her neck to face you. “I just _reeeeeally_ love this park!”

“It’s a beautiful park, isn’t it?” you sighed, looking up at the treetops glowing silver. You began to reminisce the days before you were married, when you’d just begun hanging out with Oliver. The park held a lot of memories for the both of you; in fact, it was the place where he finally asked you out. You remembered a particularly lame joke you made then: _On March, March finally asked me out_. If you hadn’t kissed him right immediately after, he probably would’ve already revoked it. It was a memory that you two still liked to joke about, a memory held dearest in your hearts.

In your remembrance, you failed to notice that your daughter had ran off somewhere without you knowing. “Honey?” You whipped your head around left and right, trying to see where she’d have gone, but the dark made it hard for you to make out anything. You began tracing back the path you two walked, but you didn’t find anybody. You strained to see something, _hear_ something, _anything_ , but you couldn’t.

“Olivia? Where are you?” you called louder. When you heard no response, you began to panic. “Olivia? This is not funny, honey, it’s dangerous here in the dark. Where are you?”

No response. You began to grow restless, pulling out the flashlight you carried in your bag, the beam of light flashing back and forth in relentless search for your daughter.

When you found her, it was too late. You found her lying in a pool of blood, soft chocolate locks tainted by maroon, her normally lively voice devoid of the natural blush it held, pale as ivory in death.

You had lived your life in fear that you’d lose your husband to the monsters. You never thought…

She never made it past eight, and you knew… you knew it was your fault. 

* * *

All you had left were the memories of her to hold on to.

Sometimes, when you woke up, you woke up to her voice. Sometimes, when the clock hit three, you stopped working on making the coffee orders, prepared to pick up your daughter from school. Sometimes, when you were about to sleep, you could hear her cries because she’d woken up to a nightmare. On those nights you’d dream of yourself being the one to murder her, and hear her cry as she took her final breath.

You’d wake up to an empty bed, because Oliver had immersed himself in his work, his way of escaping the reality. The police had captured the murderer of their daughter shortly after; she’d been murdered as a consequence of witnessing another murder. You felt even more guilty for not having noticed it before she did—if Olivia herself wasn’t dead, maybe she’d joke about how you would never be a better detective that herself, and your husband would totally agree. You’d scowl at them, but you’d be repressing a grin. Now, all that was exchanged between you and your husband were weak smiles, in an attempt to encourage the other.

You got lost in contemplation, eyes trained blankly on the black coffee, when Oliver spoke up from across you: “How was your work?”

“You know, just the usual,” you smiled lightly. “All I do is make coffee, it can't get more interesting than a satisfying latte art. What about you?”

“As usual, just hunting down the bad guys,” he shrugged, taking a sip of his own coffee. “We got a new addition to our team. She’s… really something.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “Something good? Something bad?”

“I’ve worked with her for _one_ day, love,” he chuckled. “For now, I’m leaning to good. I hope it doesn’t get too far until it goes to bad territory.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s got a great mentor to lead her, after all,” you commented, giving him a reassuring smile. It was one of the most genuine smiles you’d given him in a while, and he appreciated it, returning the sentiment.

They lapsed into silence. Then, “You know, we should go on a date one of these days. For old time’s sake.”

“Hm?”

“We haven’t really talked, like, the two of us, since forever,” Oliver pointed out. “Even before… what happened. Quite frankly, I miss talking with you, just hanging out, doing the simple things we love. Not having to think of possible death all the time.”

You gripped the handle of the mug tighter, willing the tears not to spill out your eyes. “How do we… How do we _not_ think about death when death haunts our everyday lives?”

Oliver put down his mug and looked at you solemnly. He took a deep breath. “Death is inevitable for _everybody_ , regardless of whether you think of it or not. Losing Olivia was terrible enough, but at least she died knowing we love her and that we did, indeed, spend our last days with no regrets. If I die today—” You took a sharp inhale— “If I die today, or tomorrow, then I don’t want to spend my last days like this, barely talking to you, not letting know how much you mean to me—when you’re the reason I’ve made it so far, even through our darling’s death.”

You didn’t realize that you had begun crying, the tears dripping down your neck. “I’m so–I’m sorry,” you said in a whisper, hiccuping through your words. 

He got out of his chair in an instant and walked over to you, burying your head on his chest. “Shh. Don’t be sorry now, you did nothing wrong. I haven’t been very approachable to you either lately.” You only realized that he was crying too when he sniffled.

You couldn’t say anything more, afraid of breaking down then and there. You nodded, your tears seeping through his shirt, leaving stains.

“Come on now, love. Let’s make up for lost time.”

* * *

The golden glow of the evening reminded you of the happier days, and for a moment you were distracted from your regular work routine.

You were brought back to reality by the commotion that happened on one of the tables. A man seemed to have been harassing a woman, screaming, “You can’t just run off like that! Don’t make me waste my time!”

 _What was it with these men?_ you wondered briefly, before going back to the coffee you were working on. Then you heard the woman say, “You’re right. You really shouldn’t waste time on me. Maybe use it to help out your company for real this time… or spend some more of that time with your _wife_?”

You tried, as inconspicuously as possible, to listen in to their conversation. “What?” the guy was saying.

“That poor woman… married to a cheating bastard like you,” she continued her call-out. You found it pleasing to watch the young woman stand up to herself. “But you know, even though you’re such a human disgrace, I’ve still dedicated my life to protecting ungrateful cowards like you. It’s just _instinct_ , you know?”

 _Oh_. Your heart twinged ever so slightly upon the realization, and you weren’t too sure why. You watched as she left the cafe and a man with a broken pride, and in its place, you swelled with your own pride. 

The man sitting on the table close to the counter seemed to share the sentiment. “Peculiar, isn’t she?”

“Definitely a capable officer, she is,” you agreed. He put down his mug, and you walked out of the counter to pick up the mug. 

“M’yeah,” he nodded, “though it looks like it’s a little bit more than just… hunches. You make real good coffee, by the way.”

“You’re welcome. And what do you mean by that?”

The man shrugged, giving you a lopsided grin. “Just a theory. Anyway, really glad to see officers like her still exist nowadays, right?”

You smiled lightly, heading back to the counter. “Indeed,” you mumbled to yourself. A teardrop fell from your left eye, and you wiped it before anyone would notice.

At the end of the day, your husband came home with dark circles under his eyes and sore limbs. He walked through the door while you were reading, sitting on the couch in the living room with legs resting on the coffee table, and took off his beret sluggishly. 

“A new case?” you asked, brows furrowing.

He simply nodded, before flopping on the couch next to you, before resting his head on your shoulder. You noted the wrinkles on his face and wondered how much he’d even rested—he hadn’t been home when you fell asleep the night before, nor when you woke up. He worked overnight often, so you weren't too concerned about his safety, but you were worried that he wasn’t getting _any_ rest at all.

“Phantom Scythe?” He hummed in response. You lifted an arm and brushed his bangs away from his eyes softly. “Someone you already know?”

“The Purple Hyacinth,” he muttered. “Reappeared after a while. Two murders in one night. At least Sinclair caught him and was able to identify him to an extent; even if it isn’t much to go by, it’s a little more than nothing.”

“Sinclair, is that the detective who got demoted?” 

He hummed again. “Even as a patrol officer, she’s much more useful than the others are,” he snickered, before smiling fondly. “She probably would’ve been promoted to a position higher than mine, if not for the demotion. Particularly talented, this one. It doesn’t help that she’s incredibly ambitious, too. If anything, it was why she was demoted, too.”

You figured he wasn’t in the best mood to explain, so you didn’t pry. “Well, there was this woman today in the café,” you shared instead. “I think she’s an officer as well, very passionate in bringing justice, even on her day off.”

“Huh. What’d she do?”

“Turns out the guy she went on a date with had a wife,” you explained. “She put him straight in his place. Truly a badass. She… reminds me of our daughter.”

Oliver slowly opened his eyes, glancing at you. He took your hand in his, rubbing circles over the back of your hand with his thumb. “You know, you may have already met Lauren Sinclair.”

“Oh?” you inquired, turning to face him. “Does she have red hair, fair skin, and—”

“—pensive golden eyes? Yeah, that’s the one,” he confirmed, before chuckling. “Come to think of it, I’ve always cared for her a little bit more than I did the other detectives. It never occurred to me that—” his voice broke, “—that if our daughter had survived, she’d probably become like Lauren one day.”

You were no longer able to hold up the smile on your face, your lips trembling as streams of tears ran down your cheeks. “Oliver, she’s not your daughter.”

“I know,” he reassured, staring at your intertwined hands. “I cannot help but care for her, anyway. She’s lost both her parents at a very young age as well.”

“Then she’s extremely lucky to have you as a mentor, and you, to have her as a mentee.” You planted a light kiss on his lips, and you pulled back to see his eyes bordered with red and brimming with tears, but he stared at you like you held all the stars in your eyes. The smile on your face came easily this time. “Maybe you should invite her to the cafe and we can have lunch together, one of these days. God knows we could use some company other than each other.”

“Why, are you bored of me already?” he teased.

“‘Course I am. You’re so not fun.”

“Says the person who makes the lamest puns.”

You nudged him by the arm lightly. “You love me nevertheless.”

“That I do,” he said with a sigh. “That, indeed, I do.”

The stars and the moon watched as you fell asleep in each other’s embrace, holding closest what was dearest to the both of you, in blissful acceptance of knowing that the world will end one day, nevertheless. 

Nevertheless, you chose to live the life.

**Author's Note:**

> listen. i was supposed to post chp 3 of eleutherophilia today (i promise i have it written i just haven't written the future chapters that i want to get done before posting anything to match up details and stuff whatever) poINT IS i have an incredibly bad case of writer's block (in case you couldn't tell from this lazily written fic)
> 
> and SO imma have to put it on Hold before i continue further down the plot, I'M INCREDIBLY SORRY, and also sorry again for leaving you with THIS fic out of everything else i could've written HAHAHAHA anyways i love march in case you haven't been able to tell. i'll be back, like, when i finally can write Something that's not "i don't know" (i swear that was the last thing i wrote in the docs i have issues)
> 
> okay as to why y/n x march — i love march, he lives in my mind rent free, i was confused whether to make this crack or wholesome i ended up doing what i usually do, you know, the usual bittersweetie stuff. i just—he deserves so much more appreciation for being a good detective. idk, man. march.
> 
> anyways. thank you for reading and see you when i see you! ❤️ once again sorry for being the worst author in the world <3


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